Monday, September 15, 2014

Sometimes it just doesn't work

The other day I wrote a Smitty short story. A short short story. Numbering not much more than 580 words. What I was trying to do was create a mood. Create a mood and a distinct mental image that would linger in a reader's imagination for some length of time. All in as few of words as possible. I think I succeeded. Apparently I'm the only one who thinks so.Smitty, as you may or may not know, is a character I created who basically become the counter balance to my Turner Hahn/Frank Morales characters. Turner and Frank are the good guys. Two homicide detectives who try to follow the rules a civilized society dictates to its police force in how to handle and solve violent crimes. Smitty is just the opposite. Smitty is a hit man. And the rules he follows are his own. Neither civilization nor society have little to say in the matter.What makes Smitty interesting . . . . well. interesting to me at least . . . is this; how do you make a dark character who is decidedly anti-social an interesting, and . . . dare we say it? . . . . a believable character who can actually generate some sympathy and affection from the reading audience?You must admit. An interesting conundrum.Well, anyway. Here's the short short story entitled, Sammy. Read it and tell me what you think.

Sammy

She
was sixteen. Sixteen and in tears. Long black hair, as black as a murder of
crows, fell well past her shoulders. Her hair reflecting brightly the few
shards of sunlight piercing through the fall foliage of the park's old
trees. Just a child. Thin. Almost anemic. Without feminine form
yet. Yet the orb of her face was young
and flawless in complexion. Promising
soon a beautifully exotic flower about to bloom.

He
sat down on the park bench, and, with one gloved hand stretching out, deposited
a worn, tattered, but much loved old teddy bear onto her lap. Startled, wiping a floodgate of streaming
tears from her eyes, she stared at the scruffy looking child's toy in silence
before turning to look at the man sitting beside her.

The
chill of the morning air promised a hard winter. The riot of colors of the deep Fall foliage a
visual feast to behold. The small park
setting in the middle of a small city almost empty of human presence this early
in the morning.

"I
know," the man with the dark eyes and the gloved hands of a concert
pianist replied with a similar soft whisper.

"I
kept it at Dad's house. The last time I
saw Dad it was sitting on the dresser in my bedroom. But that's been five, six
years ago. How did you get it?"

"He
asked me to give it to. I promised him I
would."

"You
knew my Dad?"

"We
were friends. At least, I considered him
my friend."

"Someone
broke into Dad's house last week and killed him," she whispered, eyes
flooding with tears and streaking down her cheeks as she watched the dark man
stand up and step in front of her.
"Do you know who killed my father?"

Above
her, hidden deep in the bowels of the canopy of a grand old birch tree, a robin
began chirping. Behind him a squirrel
leapt from a tree and began running madly across an open stretch of grass
toward another tree. Paralleling the
park the city street had a heavy flow of cars and trucks rumbling slowly in
queue from one traffic light to another.
Yet in the distance they both heard the sudden, startling, extremely loud
squeal of tires screeching across hard cement.
A half second later a moving mass of steel and glass traveling at a high
rate of speed smashed into an immovable object of immense weight. The resulting crash generated an unbelievable
explosion of noise and destruction.

The
infinitely black eyes of the man glanced toward the direction from where the
sound of a horrible accident had just occurred.
But then the dark orbs turned back to face the young girl in front of
him.

"You
asked if I knew the man you killed your father.
Yes, I used to. But he's no
longer anyone's problem. Go home, Cindy. Go back to your mother. She needs you. Like you, she never lost her love for your
father. She suffers as much as you. Go home.
The two of you put this behind you.
Make yourselves a new life. It's
all over now. All over."

He
turned and walked away, gloved hands in the pockets of the heavy blue coat he
was wearing. Just walked away. Leaving her clutching to her heart with both
hands the tattered, raggedy old form of an ancient teddy bear, with memories of
her laughing father clouding her vision.

Frank Morales. The other half of the homicide detective team

The enigmatic Turner Hahn

The first Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel

Followers

About Me

I'm a fourteen year old boy trapped in a sixty year old body. The mind is willing--the body says, "Oh no. No, no, no!"
I'm married to a wonderfully patient woman, have three grown kids and five grandchildren of which, naturally, are the most brilliant and the most handsome in the world.